


UNR34L A1R

by cryogenia



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Brain Damage, Bulges and Nooks, Canon Disabled Character, Dual Bulges, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Xeno, and canonish slurs, lbr Mituna's vernacular is p terrible even without the typing quirk, mituna just likes to feel special, trying to navigate this strange new world, warnings for some ableism, which are actually not that unusual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 17:38:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7371289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryogenia/pseuds/cryogenia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, maybe you woke up a little bit dead. That part of the dream bubz is totally harsh. But you've got your rad gear and your friends and no responsibilities to speak of. You don't age, you don't get sick, and you don't have to deal with the end of the world. The only thing is, your matesprit doesn't heal, either.</p><p>Whatevs. Your name is Latula Pyrope, and you are not about to let death come between you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	UNR34L A1R

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FindingZ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FindingZ/gifts).



> Happy drone season! This is a fill for FindingZ, who requested some original flavor Pyrope and Captor. Hopefully this will suffice! While it started out as more straight-up kink, it eventually turned into a more general exploration of Mituna's disabilities. (Please als9 n9te that as a result, there are times where the characters are n9t 100% up 9n disa6ility etiquette, and/9r express frustrati9n with the situati9n. I wanted t9 give Mituna agency, 6ut that als9 means agency t9 6e mad s9metimes t99 ;)
> 
> Anyway! If this really isn't what you were hoping for, lmk and I'll try to fill one of the other prompts. Happy pailing, and hope you don't get culled!

His name is Mituna Captor, and you have never seen him this bummed out before.

Not that he doesn’t have his moods. His mind storms have been around longer than yours, and you got your pills with your first pair of knee pads. You knew even then he was destined for the cull. (Dragondad told you not to get mixed up with him, waste of your genetic material, maybe you’d grow out of your meds - but you were never good at doing what They say, and anyway a sweep later you lost your sniffer.) So yeah, Sparky gets weird sometimes, but it’s no big. If he’s down, it’s a ‘sleep all night and ignore the ablution block’ kind of scene. Give him space and he’ll ollie out eventually.

Except.

Except he’s been sitting there for the better part of an hour, burrowed into the sand on the memory of Meenah’s private beach. Staring over the waves like there’s horizon to see. The bay is an azure cuticle, a tight little semicircle of water and then, nothing. Actually, factually nothing. The void is so black it makes your glance nuggets fritz with blue fuzzy spots, until you have to look at your toes to remember they exist. And there MT is, with his feet dug in, ignoring yours truly for the edge of the world. It sets something sour curdling in your digestive sac.

You approach on his red side where he has more control.

“Wassup, boy!!” you wave. “Gimme some skin!”

His helmet tilts in your direction but he still doesn’t  _ say _ anything. It’s...maybe starting to freak you out. Cause yeah, he gets quiet when he’s down sometimes. He’s never quiet for  _ you _ . He’ll still team up online and eviscerate teh fuxx out of Ampora in  _ Grubs Armageddon _ , and if - if he isn’t up to chat he’ll at least tell you to go away. Not whatever the hell this is.  

“C’mon, don’t leave me hanging!”

He holds his palm out for the low five but there isn’t any heat behind it. He vaguely paws in your general direction and you know he’s got more fine motor than that.

“Weaksauce,” you complain. 

“Sorry,” he says thickly. His chin tucks down toward his thorax, making himself small. He’s already a full head shorter than you.

You wonder, not for the first time, where the hell Kurloz is supposed to be.

Still, you’re here and Bozo’s not, and you can only be the raddest, baddest matesprit that anybody ever wanted. Double-Trouble doesn’t seem upset exactly, just -- quiet. You can work with that. If there’s one thing you and your boy are good at, it’s turning it the fuck up.

“I got this sick new jump!!!” you tell him. “Wanna witness?”

Mituna shrugs, but he does scooch around to face you. The lilac waves rush to fill in his butt print, eating all trace of where he used to be. You’re not sure if the ocean was really that color, or if you started remembering it wrong. 

Dream bubbles aren’t like any scene you’ve ever skated before. You can find a park you’re pretty sure you remember but all the rails will be replaced by benches, or you’ll clip straight through a pipe like Troll EA’s Skate 3. Spidersis says it’s because dreams run on memories, but memories are weaksauce; they get recreated every time you bring them up. And if you can’t quite fill in the details, imagination steps in to get you the rest of the way. One time you found the sickest deck straight up hanging in the air. It was hella sweet but it was also two dimensional, and when you gave it a nudge it took off up, up, up into the stratosphere, never to be seen again. 

You conjure up your own way radder four-wheel device, remagined as a combination of the best deck you ever owned and a sweet custom truck you peeped off one of your other bubble selves. You focus harder and it’s not sand beneath your feet, it’s pavement. You got your own powerful memories of parks and you’d have to be double-dead before you forgot the rush of the Tzzit district’s greatest bowl. 

“Check it!” you tell your boy. Mituna isn’t helping much - he’s still planted in a stubborn semicircle of sand - but his visor is tipped your direction. That counts. The more people believe in a scene, the radder it gets (and the less likely you’ll fall through the world into Cronus’s hive again. Ew.) 

“Big fuckall deal? Tzzit’s gaping dried up nook.” he grumbles. “Boring.”

A spike of irritation flashes through your gullet. 

“Keep your helmet on, I’m not done yet,” you say.

You peep into the deep crater, the foundation of a demolished hivestem that some enterprising deconstruction worker had seen fit to leave as a gift to rad grrls everywhere. The locals who used to skate there said the random debris was ‘flavor’. Tragically, your olfactory disability means you can’t taste very well either, so you remagine away the bones and shattered glass and replace them with smooth concrete from Troll Hollywood’s boulevard. It’s jet black with glass mixed into the pavement so everything shines like stars. Way gnarlier than that fugly void. 

“Twinkly twinkle fuck you no1 curr,” Mituna says.

You doof his helmet.

“It’s for  _ tha moodz _ ,” you inform him, and think hard into the shining abyss.

One winter, back in the crazy days when you were alive, Porrim took you shopping for Secret Sufferer at her crazy counterculture stores. Buoy’s Town was way too bright and rainbow drinkers are totally not your scene, but there was one toy that was actually rad and not just for daycore posers. It was a FLARP model of a sweet dragon with screws for claws and razor fangs, the way you’d always imagined your lusus. You got into a huge bitchfight with Merrygamz for not letting you buy it and then made out pitch in the alley till daybreak. 

Funny how the mind works sometimes. You can’t hardly remember how Porrim’s lips felt on yours but that dragon’s burned into your pan. You’re not going to feel guilty for it now. If memories are made up fresh every time you recall them, they are also kind of a story you tell yourself, and the story you need right now is that you’re  _ awesome _ . 

You picture the dragon in all its half-meter glory and then imagine it bigger, badder. With sweet racing stripes maybe up and down its wings. It takes shape dead center at the bottom of the bowl, twenty times its size with a clockwork heart and whirring servos that twitch its wings.

Knight of Mind  _ hell to the yes. _

“Down low for luck,” you say, reaching for some skin. Mituna slaps you an almost-respectable low five and then you’re off, kicking it all the way to the rim.

There is nothing, nothing in life (or death) like the rush you get from that first drop down a steep ramp. A swoop rushes up through your middle and your nook clenches, and the backs of your legs tremble like you’re standing on a cliff. You want to bail. You don’t. You drop your center of gravity down and let the wheels sing underneath you, leaning into the motion as your board builds up speed. It’s the closest thing you’ll get to flying, unless Paycheck ever turns up and shows off those sweet god-pajama skillz.  

You slice it toward the middle where your dragon is waiting, and you remagine that its wings aren’t up, they’re out. It snarls at you with copper and chrome and one wing dips into the pavement. Joins with the pavement, turning into the most seamless ramp anyone ever dreamed. You carve over that curve like you were hatched to do it, and when you zip across the dragon’s shoulders its other wing tilts up, up toward the sky.

You’re losing momentum as you sweep to the wingtip, but that’s okay - you got this. You pop the back of your board at exactly the same time as the dragon flicks its wing, and the rush swoops back through into your middle again as you catapult out from the bowl altogether.

The one good thing about the afterlife, you can catch some unreal air.

The rest of the trick is a blur, honestly. You’ve hit this spin so many times that it’s basically muscle memory (or whatever ghosts have - ectoplasm?  whatevs.) All you really feel is the rush pounding through your veins like teal. When you land, it jolts you knees to pan, because, holy crap!  You nailed it. You still exist. You’re  _ here _ .

You bail out just before you crash into a random misremembered rail, stumbling off your board with both arms pinwheeling.

“Awww, spillage!!” you laugh, swapping out the rail for a random patch of grass. It’s a rushed job and the detail is so shitty it might as well have been rendered from a low res video game. Whatevs. Better than remembering snapped ankles. You can’t stay permanently busted up in the bubz, but you can have a really shitty night wallowing.

You look back across the bowl to check your boy’s reaction, but Mituna isn’t even looking at you. He’s staring up at the (lack of) sky again, trailing his fingers through his stubborn patch of sand. And you’ve never flipped pitch for him before, but there is something powerful and angry and  _ frightened _ in your gullet, growing stronger with every step you take.

“Dude, what is your deal?” you complain when you get back to his stupid sandbox. “Did you even catch that!?”

He jerks his head absently in a diagonal spasm that could be a yes or could be a no, and the angry thing twists and claws in your thorax. To hell with Porrim and ‘motor planning’ issues. He’s doing that on  _ purpose _ , you are freaking convinced. You love him, but Double-Trouble can be such an asshole. 

“Dubz, you can tell me no,” you huff. 

“No I can’t,” he says, snottily. “You’ll bish. Bits.  _ Bitch _ .” 

He gets louder and louder with each attempted curse until he’s all but shouting. Between his lisp and his clumsy lips it still doesn’t sound right. Mituna hisses -- actually hisses, like a two night old wiggler -- and claws sand in all directions. Mostly at himself.

“Fucking fuck fuck fucking talk!” he wails.

The anger in your gullet sinks down, turns to sludge. You don’t mean to get ash on your heart, but how can you not.

You get a hand on his shoulder and squeeze.

“You want me to find Kurloz?” you ask softly.

“NO!” 

That was a real shake. And another. He flips his head back and forth so hard it’s liable to rattle off and you - you can’t help it, you let go like he zapped you. He’s had his moods before -- he’s fought half his caste on Troll Xbox Live ffs -- but he’s never gone from zero to shithive maggots like this. It’s like the accident reached in and turned him to eleven and you can’t --

You have no idea what you’re supposed to do.

“Hey! Um. You need your moirail,” you say. “You’re flipping out.” 

The more mobile side of his lip curls into an ugly snarl. He has twice as many teeth as his mouth knows what to do with and they’re a vicious mess.

“And do? Can’t jam.”

“You can. You can take it slow,” you say, soft and quiet. It helps fight your own rising panic.

“No!” Mituna yowls again. “ _ He _ can’t. He went and --”

He stops cold. His mouth contorts a few more times, on the cusp of a word he either can’t pronounce or can’t recall. 

“-- the thing Porrim does,” he finishes, looking frustrated. 

“‘Kay...” you say, stalling. You have no idea what that’s supposed to be. Aranea says it’s good for him to talk around words he can’t come up with. It’s not that he’s stupid, it’s that his pan doesn’t connect to his mouth right anymore. Or the rest of his body. Half the time when he stands up he falls down because his muscles don’t go where he thinks they do. Porrim (who had to take medicoddler feeds back in the day, and bitched the entire time about caste bias in education) says he’s got some paralysis up on his left side. She thinks it could have improved if his pan had time to stop swelling from the burnout.

If, you know, you’d actually lived. 

Mituna flings a handful of sand at your feet. 

“His mouth is closed,” Mituna says. Suddenly, it clicks. 

“He sewed his lips together,” you translate. ‘What Porrim does’ -  _ sewing _ . That’s actually pretty good. 

Mituna bobs his head. 

“Now he talks like -” His arms flap and he wiggles his digits in spastic rhythm, more like he’s trying to stop a stampeding orchestra than form any kind of sign. It resolves into a double ‘fuck you’. 

“He did that for his matesprit, yo.”

“So? I’m his fucking moirail!” His hands spasm again, two flutterflies caught in a hurricane. “Look at me, I’m pile-bait. Oh yeah. Yap yap yap  _ fuck _ this, fuck him in his bulgesniffing clown nose!”

Each word gets progressively more vicious until he’s stabbing the air with his fake signs, even more pissed off now than before. A+ auspisticizing right here, god. There’s a reason you never filled any of your conciliatory quadrants, and the reason is, you suck at them. 

Mituna is still frothing incoherently, alternating rude gestures with swears. He’s in the middle of calling for Meulin to fillet her own nook, which sounds both painful and physically impossible. And no matter how pissed he is at Kurloz, it’s not fair for him to take it out on Meulin (who is kind of whack but also a sweetheart, you have no idea how she got mixed up in that clown biz). 

“Dude, simmer down or you’ll get Kanklez up in here,” is the best thing you come up with, but at least it works. Mituna’s arms drop like rocks.

“Sorry,” he says abruptly and sags toward the ground. That’s another thing that’s new, his weird switching. He was always prone to mood swings, but these days it’s like he pivots in the middle of a sentence. 

“Don’t be sorry, don’t be a bonebiter,” you tell him. “It’s not Mewz’ fault she can’t hear.”

You take a deep breath.

“It’s not your fault you can’t talk, either. Okay?  Kurloz is super lame if he doesn’t get that. And  _ his _ ears still work. He can listen.”

“...I guess.” 

Mituna doesn’t sound convinced. He curls his arms around his knees and squeezes tight. Like he’s trying to shoosh  _ himself _ . Shit. You can picture what he must look like nestled with Kurloz, all highblood-big curled up against his back. The whole thing is so damn pitiful your pusher aches, but what the hell are you supposed to do?  Short of summoning Kurloz to thrash his scrawny ass, and your mind powers are sweet but they’re not  _ that _  sweet. So far only Kankri’s figured out how to warp around to yell at people. You really do not want Kankri mixed up in this.

“You’re still the raddest dude I know. Y’know?” you try. 

Mituna shows his fangs again. 

“Yeah bitches are all over this.” 

He snarls and claws at his own helmet like he’s trying to - what?  Take it off? Scratch his horns? It’s super unclear. 

“ _ This _ bitch is,” you say firmly. Oh god please don’t let Kankri hear that. You have less than zero time to listen to him lecture you for calling  _ yourself _ something pr9blematic. 

No nubby horns appear though, so you figure you’re good. No one else is around within klicks (you think klicks?  Space gets weird further in from the bubble wall.) You’re free to do whatever you want. Whatever you need. And MT may not want to see Downer Clown but he’s still upset so whatever. It’s not like you’ve never gotten kinky before. 

“Don’t freak out, okay?  I wanna try something,” you tell him.

You drop down onto the residual sand beside him and lean in close. You grab one of his bigger horns where it protrudes from the helmet and give it a good, soothing tap while your hand comes up to pap his face. 

Mituna freezes for all of five seconds and then explodes into a sob.

“Shoosh,” you tell him awkwardly. He only trembles harder.. “Shoosh, dude. It’s cool.”

“It’s not--!”  

“Shooz?”

God, you’re bad at this. You think you’ve found his conciliatory jaw glands but his cheeks are getting wet and he won’t stop twisting. He shrieks like a wiggler someone stepped on and slaps at your feel-stubs.   

“Don’t-touch-me-stop-touching!!” His slur is so thick you can barely hear the separation between the words.

Ohcrapohcrapohcrap.

“Shoosh babe, it’s not Fishsticks!” You pull your hands off right away though. It’s your afterlife goal never to be Ampora, who still hasn’t learned ‘eat shit and die’ means ‘never’. Guilt churns like acid in your ‘sac.

“I’m sorry,” you say. You scoot back at least an arm length to give him some space. 

Mituna slaps at his face like he can make the tears stop coming through sheer force of impact. It sort of seems to be working. You can’t really tell under his visor.

“Don’t wanna be p-pale for you,” he manages. “Wanna  _ pail _ with you. Wanna fuck.”

He lunges at you and grabs your hand, shoves it clumsily between his legs. He has never looked less down to fuck in his life, and you saw him with all four struts in traction after the nitro boosters incident. You yank your hand back as if burned. 

“We can fuck!?” you say, startled. “If you stop flipping out?” It’s...maybe not your smoothest response, but shit. You feel like you lost the thread of this conversation somewhere around the last sweater and it’s starting to wig you out too.

“But we don’t,” he hisses. “Because I don’t fucking work! Nobody’s ‘fault’. But it fuck fucking  _ sucks _ !” 

He scrabbles at his dead horns with brittle claws, visibly dulling at least one of them. There’s a lump in your throat the size of the universe.

It’s not that you’ve been avoiding the topic. It’s just that -- okay, it’s been weird. You know it is, for both of you. Before the burnout you could get down two or three times a night, maybe more if it was pailing season. He’s pretty much always raring to go unless he’s in a major downswing. Even then you could get on webcam and he’d chirp right along to the tune of your vibe. It cheered him up to give you directions whether he got his nook wet or not. Now, it’s like...it’s like there’s nothing that doesn’t frustrate him. He can’t sext fast because typing is a chore. He can’t watch you using a bulgesleeve because it reminds him how his are clumsy. And you don’t mind marathon sessions, but it does take him so much longer to come. Sometimes he just does his pants up and pretends his belly isn’t aching.

Sometimes you think your lives are more divided ‘before and after the burnout’ than before and after your actual deaths. It’s a messed up thing to think. You’re almost glad you don’t have a moirail so you haven’t had to admit it to anyone.   

“Hey,” you say. You’re not sure how much he wants to be touched right now so you hang back, though everything in you screams to hold him. You play it cool. (You always do.) 

“Hey. You’re still my boy. Whether we get freaky or not.”

“But I want to,” he says miserably. “Wanna game. Wanna skate. Wanna get my mad grind on.” He tries (and fails) to spin that into a leer. You roll with it anyway. 

“I’m down to get railed,” you say.  

He folds up tighter and presses his visor to his knees.

“Sure,  _ you _ get railed. I used to -”

He taps vaguely at his horns, back and forth between the large ones and the smaller set. Like the sparks of his psionics, you realize. God. 

You revise your earlier opinion about being terrible at the pale quadrants. Who’s the worst at matesprit?  It’s you. 

“What, are you saying I don’t give it to you good enough?”  You try for teasing, but your smile feels pasted on. You’ve spent so much time tiptoeing around the accident that you completely missed the steaming pile of trunkbeast shit in the room.

Because Sparky wasn’t just a good psionic, he was  _ great _ . Off-the-charts crazy OP. If he hadn’t been manic he could have taken a starship commission; his patron had been trying to get him an exception. They had to straight up train him not to fly everywhere so his muscles wouldn’t atrophy. And he’d thought nothing of using that power on  _ you. _

It’s your biggest secret, how hot it made you to feel his psionics lacing over your body, holding you down til you couldn’t even wriggle. Girls are bigger (and badder) than boys but he could pick you up and use you like his own personal nook toy. He knows exactly how he likes to be fucked and he isn’t shy about it; he had such finesse he could take your pants off midlap and still come in first on Troll Mario Kart. Sometimes he’d give you control of your bulge but nothing else and you would thrash and thrash to please him. 

Your lusus would have had a fit. She would have had nine purrbeast fits to know that a hotblood mutant was pailing you like that. But you can still feel the sizzle of electricity on your tongue and that helplessness of knowing,  _ knowing _ you can’t get free, and you don’t care how uncool it is. It’s a lucky break no one’s figured out how to remagine multiplayer games. You get wet just thinking about Rainbow Road.

“...yeah, I miss it too,” you admit, because you’re not like other girls. You can give it to a boy straight. “But whatever. You know it’s not the only thing.”

Mituna shrugs a little, still hunched in his sad bundle. It looks like he’s stopped leaking, at least. Rad grrls are all about making the boys cry but to be honest you have no idea what to do with them when they do. It kind of makes you freak. 

“It’s the only thing I’m good at,” he says quietly. 

For a moment, you’re absolutely speechless. 

“Dude!” is the first thing you manage to say. That was an indignant dude. You’re fluent in all forms of ‘dude’, you can have entire conversations in it. “Dude, that is not fair. Like, you say you don’t wanna flip pale, but how am I supposed to listen to this and not wanna hold you? Seriously harsh.”

Oh, wow. Another key line from master smooth operator. But he gives you a ghost of a grin, which for him means it still lights up his whole face. People always asked how you put up with his weird crass behavior, even before ‘annoyed’ meant ‘frothing at the bit’. That crooked smile is the answer. That expressiveness.

“You can try,” he says.

“Try and fail?” You can’t resist the meme. 

“Try and die!” he completes, and oh, how your bloodpusher sings. They say sick musclebeasts seem more hopeful when they’re sitting up on their chests. Your matesprit is better when he’s quoting dumb scifi movies. 

“Double die,” you amend, and make grabby hands. “C’mere. Totally flushed snugglez. No diamond.” Because fuck Kurloz. Fuck him right in the ganderbulb. Your matesprit’s feeling worthless and if Bozo’s not around to make that junk better, you’re sure as hell going to try.

Mituna scooches to you carefully on his hands and knees, probably cause he doesn’t trust his balance to hold him. You catch his shoulders and position him between your legs, narrow back to your broad front. 

“Is this okay?” you ask. 

“Yeah,” he sighs. He tips his head to lean into your shoulder, clonking his stupid helmet into your breast plate.

“Ow!” You wince. “Dang! You wanna take that off!?”

You reach for the clasp beneath his chin without thinking about it. For the first time, pressed so close together, you notice how he tenses when you help him.

“Do you...not wanna take it off?”

Mituna shifts almost imperceptibly between your thighs.

“ _ Dude. _ ” 

“I  _ do _ like it!” he blurts out. “Woo woo oh no, put me in the slammer.”

“Chillax, it’s a simple question!  If you want it on, whatever!”

You are definitely, definitely not in danger of switching pale. You so totally do not have the patience.

Mituna taps his helmet. 

“So, on?”

“Yes.”

“Okay!” Fine. Whatevs. You miss his fluffy cloud of hair, but to be fair it’s probably oily and rank from being cooped up. (He might reek right now for all you know - at least his flightsuit doesn’t seem greasy.) You wiggle so his horns aren’t poking into your neck and he churrs to you very softly. 

  
“No diamond,” you remind yourself, and close your arms around his chest.

You start up your own purr, deeper and louder than his weaksauce boy whirring. Your rumblespheres aren’t as big as Porrim’s but they get the job done, amplifying the sound from your thoracic voicebox. You’ve never had the chance to make pale noises in front of someone before and you hope you got the frequency right. The right vibration is supposed to soothe and encourage healing. You would purr at him forever if you thought it would actually fix this.

That’s the cruelest part of being dead, you think. The not-aging thing is rad. The memory world is fun. But the healing’s super random, and the dream is never fair. You came in literally blown to smithereens and it put your bodies back together. You don’t know why it left his pan scrambled.

Mituna wiggles in your arms and draws your hands to rub down his belly. His muscles are compact but strong beneath your palms, covered by the faintest hint of softness. You can feel more than hear his purr as he starts to switch registers, higher and more urgent with an intermittent hitch. You subtly change your song to match. His concupiscent noises are more fragile now, affected by his motor control, but no less precious for their imperfection.

“‘If I said I liked your body, would you hold it against me’?” he slurs.

“Ew! Did you steal that from Cronus?” you laugh. 

“No! Shit! Chumbucket wishes he had my wiles.” He sounds offended. “Bitches don’t know about my motherfucking wiles.”

“Oh yeah?” One thing for the helmet, it gives you a convenient handle. You tilt his head to one side so you can kiss his dimple. “Sure you’re not throwing pitch?”

“NO! Piece of  _ globes _ ,” Mituna swears again with more vehemence. You’re as fluent in weird swears as you are in ‘dude’. This one means ‘fuck Ampora, seriously’. 

“Chill, I’m just teasing.” You lick his cheek again for fun. Mituna doesn’t taste like anything to you, beyond the slight salt of dried anguish fluid, but his skin is soft and smooth. He chirps and pushes into your touch.

The helmet is seriously digging into your shoulder now, so you juggle him to sit side straddle across your thighs instead. He swoons over your arm like a midblood heroine in only the finest of trashy novels. 

“Aww yiss sloppy makeouts,” he churrs happily. 

“You made it sloppy,” you complain, and lift him up to kiss his stained cheeks again. You’re comfortable enough in your rad self to play the Ordinary Girl who sweeps the pitiful heir off their strut pods. Usually it’s a highblood scion but engh. Mituna’s the ‘Heir’ of Doom, that counts. You lick his exposed cheeks clean until he’s practically hiccuping through his purr, not quite able to hit the chirps. It’s not quite the dashing song of seduction in vids but to hell with it. It’s yours.

He tips his head and his lips find yours somehow. Clumsy at first, but gaining in confidence. It’s not pale the way you drag your claws down the length of his throat. Not with the threat of your teeth following after. 

“Fuck yeah!”

He squirms in your grip and kicks his feet, sending a shower of sand everywhere. You wrinkle your nose. If this is going where you hope it’s going, sand is the last thing you want near your nook. It’s hard to concentrate with a lap of warm Mituna but you manage to convert the last patch of dumb beach to skate park. There is nothing you remember more fondly than getting it with your boy right out in the open, exxxtreme celebration for completing extreme tricks.

His lopsided grin could rival the moon. 

“I forgot how to take off my clothes,” he says. You’re a thousand percent sure he’s trying to wiggle his eyebrows behind that visor.

“Whatever, then do mine,” you grin back. Not that you’ll let him. He’s a freak for anything up or on his nook, and all it it takes is heel of your hand between his legs to get him grinding.

“No fair!” he moans, thrashing in your arms. He’s trying to sit up and straddle your leg. You crook your knee oh-so-helpfully to tease him. 

“Grodanmmit!! You want me to slime your strut pod?”

“Maybe.” 

He wobbles into a kneel and you follow to help him balance. His profanities wash over you in an increasingly comforting wave. He’s not great at putting sensible swears together but that doesn’t matter when you can make him sound like this. You draw your claws over his throat again and dig the points in just beneath his pale-bonding glands. He warbles the hottest, most desperate trill, caught between an instinctive submissive purr and a redder sound.

“Kinky binchhh,” he moans, and oh shit. That goes straight to your nook and you  _ sing _ with the clenches. Your slit is smaller than most and your bulge is unfurling uncomfortably, sneaking out from your pelvic bone guard and forcing its way into your nook.

“You know it!” you tell him and mash your face to his face, swallowing his sounds and his lips and his breath. This is the comfort you know how to give, your teeth on his skin and your hands playing him like a four stringed instrument. When he tips left you sway with him, clutching at his ass like a lifeline.

Mituna whines and slaps frantically at his own hip.

“What?” 

“The thing to open my clothes,” he finally spits. “Get it off get it off gedditoff.”

“Zipper?” you say. 

He bobs his head in relief. Pull tabs are hard for him sometimes, especially the small ones. Porrim made your team’s original uniforms and they’re a gorgeous pain in the ass. You find the front flap on his flightsuit and tug it open one painstaking snap at a time. His chest jumps when you bite the zipper. 

“Ehehehe oh hell yes!” 

You smile into the fabric. If he thinks that’s a sweet trick, this rad combo is going to melt his pan. You remagine that you’re wearing your thickest elbow pads and hit the deck in one fell swoop, pulling the zipper tab down with your mouth. He yowls like a surprised purrbeast as his battlesuit splits open to his belly, clearly not expecting you to manage that from kneeling. Knees to deep bow, aww yes. The bendiest, it’s you.

Mituna’s intermittent purr clicks into high gear, like a whirling lawnblade device gaining traction.  

“Lick it bitch!” he growls, down  _ deep _ , and oh god. Your bulge surges within your nook, so close but not quite bendy enough to scratch that deep itch. 

He used to want it rough right after you’d been shredding it, hopped up on the rush of landing without broken bones. He snatched you right out of midair once, levitated you out of a jump and bent you over a rail. Your bulge pulses and you can’t help it, you’re weak. You want to get up on his shameglobes so badly.

“Lick it,” he orders again.

“Stand up,” you fire back. Because hot as it is, there’s no way you’re doing this with your chin actually scraping the ground. 

His thighs twitch ever so slightly. You wouldn’t notice it except they’re on par with your glance nuggets. 

“Need a thing,” he mutters. He stills for a moment and then tugs your hair. You look up and watch him do an enthusiastic pantomime of a handplant.

“Rail?” It’s not hard to remagine one behind him. You’re already in a sweet skate park. Even as a Knight of Mind, the dream responds best when you swap in like-with-like. Mituna beams like you’re a seabeast that’s just performed an especially amusing trick.

“Aww yeah. You know ur my dream grrl?”

“Haha,” you say out loud, pronouncing each syllable distinctly and without amusement. His bare skin is peeking out in a v through that flightsuit, and here you are without a single appendage down his pants. Unacceptable. You stick your tongue against a tantalizing patch of belly and whine when he fumbles away, using the rail to pull himself up. 

“Booyeah!!” 

“Dude.” That’s ‘we talked about booyeah during sex, dude’. This is not a new problem.

He leans his scrawny butt against the rail and holds onto it with both hands. Suddenly it’s the  _ same _ rail, full of spray paint flecks and axle marks and a stupid scratched-on romance grid. You saw that graffiti up close and personal while Mituna was pailing you within an inch of your life. When you came, you obliterated ‘Karuta <3 Nixtos‘ with teal.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Mituna whines. There’s an edge to his purr that didn’t exist before. The crotch of his flightsuit flexes alarmingly and he lurches to one side. “Take it  _ out. _ ”

“Got me hot,” you groan. “Gimme a sec.”

It’s hard to want to move with your bulge tucked up your nook, so you lick your lips and concentrate. While generally you approve of pants, right now you’re so not a fan. Maybe you should remember that you forgot to wear them today. 

A cool breeze rushes over your suddenly bared ass and Mituna makes a noise like a barkbeast whistle.

You churr back to him and make him watch you wind your bulge around your wrist, coaxing it out of your nook a centimeter at a time. Your whole slit is dilated and dripping, internal shameglobes working on overdrive. You walk forward on your knees and notice his are shaking.

You close your mouth over the outline of his bulges through the fabric and let your rumble come into your throat. He shrieks and thrashes into the vibration, too overwhelmed to do anything but shake.

“Geddit off geddit off!” he cries.

You rear back and hold up a hand in surrender. Mituna shows all of his twisted teeth in a grimace.

“It’s chill,” you tell him quick. He shakes his head. Your bulge is still coiling around your other wrist, setting off sparks all through your hips. 

“We can stop,” you say anyway. 

“NO!” Mituna hisses. “Not the ish-ith-fuck, gimme a sec.”

He plants his ass against the rail and just breathes, long deep breaths to reestablish his weak purr. His bulges are still twisting visibly beneath his flightsuit’s fabric. What you wouldn’t give for that zipper to go all the way to the slit. 

“This if in the way,” Mituna says again, clearer now. He tugs at his flightsuit, struggling to peel it off his weaker shoulder. You reach up to help him but never get the chance. At the slightest touch of your claws the whole thing dissolves into a thousand tiny strips and flutters off his body.

You’re pretty extra sure that wasn’t you.

“Take that, jumpsuit!” Mituna says, jubilant. He bounces so hard he has to grab the rail. Your purr is all the way in your throat again, you can’t help it. He exploded his freaking clothes like multicolored celebration dots. You want to lick him from head to toe.

“Holy shit that was awesome,” you choke through the rumble. “Mad propz, dude.”

“Fuckin’  _ shredded _ it,” he agrees, jutting out his hips. His twin bulges are twisting feebly just over his nook and you need to get your hands up in that immediately. They’re thinner than yours and tapered at the tip, sensitive on the underside in a way your thick one isn’t. 

“Yeah,” he sighs. “You like that sicknasty action?”

You hum a little noncommittally. Mituna likes to brag cause of his red-and-blue biz, but it’s not like he’s actually that special. Lots of boys have hemibulges. They’re made to be sensitive, all those nerves squished into a smaller space. It used to mean you had more stamina, because grrls rule the streets and the sheets.

Mituna’s bulges aren’t as coordinated as they used to be though, barely prehensile at all. The left one twitches when your palm ghosts over, but it can’t seem to lift or curl. Mituna’s glaring at it like he’s winding up for another hissy fit, which, no. You don’t care if it’s being whack, you can work with it.

You push your face into his junk, but you don’t just use your tongue on his wrigglies. You catch the droopy one with both hands and slide it down your throat.

“Fuck!” Mituna screams. He staggers against the rail, clinging to it for dear life. “Kinkie hour, I can’t -- grubfucking  _ shit _ !”

You have his bulge  _ in your mouth _ . 

Heat floods through your belly and you’re trembling right along with him. You can’t taste him but you can feel his gold drip all over your tongue. The other bulge lashes wildly, painting color all over your face, but the left one just twitches. An active bulge could choke you like this, surge down your throat and stop up your breath flap. Or lash sideways and get cut open on your needle teeth. Mituna can’t thrash enough with this hemibulge to do either thing and instead you press up with the very points of your teeth, just enough to threaten that quivering underside. The noise he makes defies understanding.

You can’t keep your bulge out of your nook any longer. It’s impossible. Your shame globes are filling so fast they’re making your opening swell shut. You flick your tongue all over his bulge and watch his belly heave. Every single twitch makes you drip more.

“LT LT Elle Tea…”

His concupiscent noises are even more haphazard but he’s still begging. Good. You catch the bulge slapping against your cheek and trap it so he can feel the outline of his left bulge through your cheek.

“Rail me,” he gasps. He wails like he’s dying when you pull off long enough to speak. 

“Got a sweet rail right there,” you purr, twirling the very tip of his left bulge around your finger. Mituna squeezes the bar like he could snap it off.

“Thaff not -”  His face contorts in a flurry of motion, frustrated and ecstatic and everywhere in between. He shoves off the rail so suddenly you almost don’t have time to back up. His legs are trembling so bad, you’re surprised he’s keeping his balance.

“Whoa -”

His stronger hand fists into your  _ hair _ , right between the horns where the scalp’s tight on both of them. Your nook clenches so hard on your bulge that it hurts. 

“Kick it back,” he growls. “Get it out. Gonna ride you.”

Oh  _ hellz _ yes.

He tugs again. Pain explodes through your scalp and your whole body tingles. You try to pull away but too much of his weight is on you. He’s using you like a supplementary balancing device and it is the hottest thing you’ve felt since the bomb. This, this is what you’ve been missing. Being pinned, being yanked, being manipulated like a rag doll. You cry out with upper and lower voiceboxes at once and he pushes you to the side. You have barely a second before he’s stumbling on top of you, too far off balance to keep himself up without your support.

“Oh fuck yes getonme,” you sputter, scrambling to spread beneath him. The concrete grates on your bare ass but you could give a good goddamn. He’s all fangs and smile and compact heat folded up against your body. You wish you could bury your claws in his hair.

“C’mon,” you plead, pawing at the helmet clasp. He flattens himself over your chest, forcing your arms away.

“No,” he says. He sounds incredibly smug. “For protectection.” 

What! You are _lying_ _down!_! That is double-plus uncool.

“C’mon dude. You’re so hot without it.”

Mituna snorts. 

“‘I could give a fuck less what a bitch thinks’,” he quotes in surprisingly fluent sing-song. (For some reason, it’s easier for him to recall slam poetry; there’s times it gives him words he can’t otherwise produce.) You bare your teeth and growl back at the lyrics.  _ You _ could give a fuck less about clown hymns.

Mituna’s response is -  _ fuck _ . 

“NO,” he snarls and mashes the hard plastic to your forehead, forcing your head down with his own. His eyes, furious and staring, lock with yours through the visor. This close up you can see them through the glass. Through the tint, their flat glow burns equally blue and red.

“Okay!” you gasp. Holy shit, that’s intense. You haven’t done it like this in so long you forgot how shivery you get. It’s like landing a new jump, like the first drop off a mad crazy precipice. His confidence is so overwhelming it edges on pitch. 

“Flushed for you,” you whimper, in case he needs a reminder. He purrs back in a faint but determined stutter.

“Get it out,” Mituna tells you again, though softer. He pushes laboriously onto all fours, like a new barkbeast that can’t find its limbs. You make a move to touch your slit but he nudges your arm. 

“Out,” he says again. Both his hands are on your thorax, pinning you with his weight. You can’t shrug your arm low enough to reach your nook. There is no ‘dude’ in the language to express how wet that makes you. 

Slowly, agonizingly, you flex your bulge up and out from your own nook. Each ripple presses against your aching globes and it’s all you can do not to thrash. His thighs are braced to either side of your hips and his own bulges hang down to trail your belly. The mobile one finds the edge of your shirt (that you’re still wearing, whoa my god, what is wrong with you?!) and curls into it. Mituna’s jaw goes slack into a moan.

“Fuck yesss fucking globes,” he warbles. 

“Fuckin’ my  _ shirt _ ,” you correct. It doesn’t matter. His legs are spread wide and his yellow is dripping all over you, and your bulge seeks that hot tight nook like it was made to be there. 

“Fuuuuucckfuckkffffhghh!”

Mituna slumps back like his legs don’t remember how to hold him and your bulge surges all the way in. Oh god. You are going to get the worst case of road rash and you cannot care, you can’t stop writhing on this concrete. Your tip brushes up on his seed flap and you shiver from horn to toe. 

On your next shuddering breath, your entire shirt explodes. 

“The hell!?” Fibers. Fibers everywhere. It’s like a cotton candy machine caught you by surprise. Mituna’s face twists and the fluff vanishes. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry. Wanna see you. Makes me feel --”

His face scrunches up again and he flails through another firestorm of emotions, too rapid for you to really make out. He keeps bobbing his head like the helmet’s too heavy, forward-and-up, forward-and-up. Everything’s so hazy, but you know you should know this. You know this. You do.  

If he still had his pyrotechnics, he’d be sparking. That’s what that little shimmy is. You’ve got him keyed up so high he doesn’t know how else to let it out. Your bloodpusher twinges and you give it to him harder, as best you can without leverage. You arch beneath his body and rub your bulge over everything sweet in him, his swollen globes and stubborn seedflap and every ridge of his nook in between. When he opens up to you all the way, you scream. 

Because the concrete is gone beneath you, not less noticeable. _ Gone _ . The bottom drops out at the pit of your stomach and there’s just nothing, like you’ve missed a Celtas flip and you are going to wipe. You twist violently against Mituna’s weight but before you can process  _ what the ever loving fuck  _ the pavement is back again. Like it never left.

“What the fuck,” you do gasp out loud for good measure. Every inch of your body is running hot and cold and you can’t tell if you’re ready to blow your pan or your load. Mituna’s weight is solid on your hips and your bulge is so far up him he’s trembling.

“How you make me feel,” he says. “I thoughth flying. And that happened. Fuckinghg pan-addled hoofbeastshit!” 

‘Flying’. Gogdamnit it, dream bubz. Totally like the afterlife to make your sex life give you pusherattacks. You grind your heels against the concrete, reminding yourself that it’s real(ish) and not going anywhere.

You have never been so turned on.

“Hey,” you say. “It’s all good.”

“Sorry,” he says. You don’t want him to be sorry though. Mituna keeps making tiny anxious chirps, nudging you with his right bulge to see if you’ll respond. You retaliate by shoving a hand between you and bending the stupid thing back toward where you are joined.

“Fuckfkf yessss…”

Mituna’s chirping dissolves into a relieved trill. His hemi snakes past your own bulge and dips into your nook. The heat of him is like a brand.

  
“Do it again,” you breathe.

Mituna’s bulge surges against your shameglobes and you shiver. 

“I tell you when,” he says. That dark heat is back in his voice. His hands brace against your collarplate, holding you fast.  

“Do it quick,” you plead. Your bulge is twisting into him so hard you’re surprised you can’t see it through his belly. Fuck, that would be mad sicknasty. Mituna groans and thumps his head against your chest. His visor digs in but the pain only makes you thrash harder.

Mituna’s paralyzed hemi twitches and streaks gold over your skin, betraying how close he has to be. You’re still watching it when the world blips out beneath you again.

“Oh my  _ fuck _ !”

This time you thought you were ready for the drop. You’re not. You can’t see what you’re falling towards and the backs of your legs go electric with flight-or-fight. Your breath hitches, your purr catches, and your nook clenches up instinctively. Mituna’s bulge is right there and you tighten so hard it feels like your globes are going to explode. He’s tight around you too and his seedflap flutters and you are going to come apart.

Solid plane under your back again. You think it’s sand now. You don’t care. You open your mouth to take a ragged breath and the sand disappears. You are falling all over again.

“Fufckkfthhfcukffhh!”  

Mituna’s voice is all tangled in his tongue but it doesn’t matter. You can feel what he’s trying to say. You can see a beach above you like a mirrorglass reflection, oddly flat and polygonal like bad rendering as everything else fades to black. Clipping through the world like Skate 3, that’s what you’re doing, and it doesn’t matter. He’s so warm and  _ real _ around you and in you. Everything is sweeping down through your middle and you cry out as you unravel all at once. Your bulge pulses and your nook clamps down, and all you can see is him shaking against you. And your face, flushed and triumphant, reflected in his visor.

The pleasure crests and ebbs back slowly in subsequent tingling waves. Your nook brims with liquid heat and more spurts over your belly, a tangible sign that he came too. He collapses onto your chest, too fucked-out to do anything but hiccough an awkward churr. It’s so good to feel him enjoying this.  _ You _ can feel it in your fangs, for crapssake. 

You should probably also stop the flying/falling. That could be good. Double-Trouble doesn’t stir when you bop his helmet, so you groan and take this whack scene into your own pan. You squint at the floating gpu-glitch beach and flip it turnways, exploding from out-of-boundaries dark into dazzling, brilliant moonlight. It feels like you ought to crash land, but instead the sand just clips into place under your bare ass. You are no longer falling free.

Mituna’s bulges are still out and flicking feebly against your bone shield and inside your nook. Yours is slipping back into your sheath. The aftershocks are still lancing down to your toes.

“Dude,” you laugh. This is a dude you’ve never spoken before. This is entirely uncharted territory of dude. You think it means you can’t believe you just did that. You think that was the burliest gnarliest most sexxxtreme drop.

You think it means you’re red as the sun for him, and you are never going to let him forget it.

Mituna grins and topples off you to the right. His head hits the sand so hard it bounces. 

“Helmet!” he announces proudly, wriggling his ass into the sand. His pretty little sticky bare ass.

“Ew, Dubz!” you say. “Gonna get sand in your nook.”

“Gonna get nook on the sand,” he shoots back. He’s got one hand flat on his lower belly, massaging the area over his material sack. He’s going to want to pail soon, maybe within the next hour. Maybe, if his bulges are still out, you can push them into himself and make him come again.

You tug him up to your side for now and stare up into the lack of sky. He whirrs very softly and offers an exhausted low five. You clap it hard and hold onto his hand.

“What were you scoping up there, anyway?” you finally ask. You figure it can’t hurt. You realize you never asked.

Mituna makes a tiny sound.

“Can’t ‘member eggsactly,” he says. He squeezes your hand a little tighter. “But I seen this before. Before the -”

You turn to look at him in case he needs to pantomime. There’s a strange look on his face for a moment, then it’s gone. 

“Something’s coming,” he tells you. Not really frightened, just matter-of-fact. “Something big, soon. For all the starchy tubers. I think maybe I tried to stop it. But it was always gonna be here. Doesn’t madder. I was being a wiggligler.”

He taps the dead space between his horns and goes silent. 

“Doom stuff,” you say. You never really got the doom stuff, just like you never got the rage. Or the pale quadrants, or jamming about feelings, or lots of other stuff. Doesn’t mean you don’t want to try for him. 

“Doom stuff,” Mituna says, and presses his nose into your arm. His helmet is warm in the memory of the moonlight. You could get used to it, you think.

“...you wanna jam about it sometime?” you offer eventually. “Totally flushed pile timez a’course.”

“No diamond,” he agrees. He sounds happy, though. His smirk turns mischievous. “First, I wanna pail you all over this beech.”

You chirp and shift to sling a leg over his hips, feeling his half-full bulges take interest. Your nook is still full of gold, but you don’t think he got deep enough to get it past your seedflap. What a shame -- he’ll have to fuck you again. Maybe with both of his bulges when you drop this time.

That’s definitely one thing about the afterlife.

You can catch some unreal air.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if it's a personal best or worst that I quoted ICP in a sex scene. I'm going to go with r4d.
> 
> Also, p sure the credit for "take that, jumpsuit!" goes to a lovely GHB/Mituna comic I saw bobbing about the bubblr once upon a dream.
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr at [eye-of-orion](http://eye-of-orion.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
